


yes, god, yes

by fluorexcence



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Catholicism, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Grooming, Older Man/Younger Woman, Power Imbalance, if u don’t comment on ppls work—why???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21556903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluorexcence/pseuds/fluorexcence
Summary: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.”thisfire is something else entirely. it will consume everything, and she will let it happen.
Relationships: Violet Baudelaire/Count Olaf
Comments: 14
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m Jewish.”

“We’re all children of God here.”

“I’m not sure I even believe in God.”

He smiles. “Questioning one’s faith is essential. If you are not tested, how can you know the strength of your convictions?”

Violet shrugs, twisting the hem of her school skirt. Boarding school – _Catholic_ boarding school, no less. Violet had never been one to blindly accept authority, but free thought was not encouraged at Prufrock. It used to be a secular school, but a crisis of morality and lack of funds had led to the transfer of power. 

Father Olaf is charged with the saving of their immortal souls. Violet, ever stubborn, had been singled out for her constant questioning and general disagreeability. And so she finds herself here, sitting on an uncomfortable pew in the church for a one-on-one meeting with the priest. 

She discretely looks up at him through her lashes, cataloguing the details of his appearance. He is tall, perpetually dressed in all black save for the white of his collar. His hair is greyed and swept back, his prominent brows framing eyes that are too shiny and too full of want to ever be holy. 

“Miss Baudelaire, your teachers are concerned that you are finding this adjustment particularly difficult. It is my sacred duty to guide students here at Prufrock, just as the shepherd tends to the flock.” He stands in front of her, hands clasped behind his back. She wonders if she should find his looming presence frightening. 

“I’m not a sheep,” she mutters before she can stop the words from escaping. She could kick herself, this is exactly the behavior that got her here in the first place. 

To her great relief and surprise, the priest just laughs. “No, you are certainly not,” he says, mouth quirked up in amusement. She turns her gaze downwards, her cheeks flushing with heat, inexplicably pleased that she had made him laugh.

The clock chimes then, calling out the hour as time marches on, careless to anything outside it. They both turn towards the sound, perfectly mirroring one another’s movements. 

“I suppose you have class now, yes?” 

Violet nods. 

“Will you be attending?”

She shrugs, not bothering to hide the impish smile in her eyes as she meets his gaze. She’s slightly startled by its intensity, at the dark depths beneath impossibly pale irises. As she turns to leave, she can feel his eyes on her, and she wonders if he too feels stifled here. So far, he seems to be one of the more intelligent adults she’s met at her time at Prufrock. 

“Miss Baudelaire,” he calls after her. She pauses in the arch of the doorway, turning towards him expectantly. “I am always here, should you want to talk,” he offers. 

Violet searches his eyes for hints of mockery but only sees sincerity, which unsettles her all the more. “Thank you, Father,” she says demurely before slipping out of the church. 

— 

She no longer sleeps. 

She tries to, _needs_ to, and the dark circles rimming her eyes clearly show her exhaustion, but nightmares stubbornly refuse to allow her rest. She dreams of fires, of smoke filled lungs and her family turning to ash before her eyes. She dreams of pale eyes and hellfire and damnation. 

Violet drifts through the days, pale and small, like a ghost of a girl. She doesn’t have the energy to fight with the administration and so she withdraws into herself. She hardly pays attention, deeming her classes useless — all of them, except for the mandatory Sunday mass. 

She always sits towards the back, focusing on the lilt of his voice as he recites his sermons, leads their lost souls to salvation. She listens to the soothing rhythm of the prayers rather than the words themselves, the low rasp of his words.

The priest revels in his power as he stands at the altar, hands outstretched towards the heavens. He looks like he was made to lead, to command attention. Briefly, she wonders if a man of god should be so willful. She wonders if he truly believes what he recites to them every Sunday. 

“Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation,” he says, and Violet _swears_ he looks directly at her. “But deliver us from evil. Amen.” 

Violet hurries out of the church before the crowd thins, anxious to avoid conversation and above all, avoid any interaction with the priest. She had yet to take him up on his offer to talk, couldn’t bare the thought of being alone with him. He unnerved her in ways she couldn’t fully understand. Even watching him from afar, Violet could tell that he was something else entirely, something dark and different. Sometimes, she thinks she may be like that, too. 

If she had bothered to stay, she would have seen the priest scan the crowd for a pale face with dark eyes, and perhaps would have seen the imperceptible clench of his jaw as he finds her missing. 

—

He finds her sitting at the piano, plucking out a seemingly random pattern of notes. She’d appear bored, if it weren’t for the far-off expression on her face. She was worlds away, thinking and feeling things he had no privy to. It irks him, how unknowable this slip of a girl is. 

He steps forward. “Miss Baudelaire.”

She just about jumps out of her skin, her reverie broken and her eyes wide as she turns to him, the guilty look of being caught out on her face. 

“Father Olaf! I was just–“ she begins. 

“Skipping class,” he finishes for her, raising his brow. 

Violet looks down, flushing and twisting the hem of her school skirt between her hands. She hadn’t intended to skip, but she had been so tired and Mr. Remora was insufferable, so she had ducked into the church without really thinking. 

_Sanctuary_ , she thinks. She was looking for sanctuary. 

He lets her suffer his silent judgement before taking pity, relaxing his features and sighing. “What are we to do with you, Miss Baudelaire?” He steps closer to her, the back of her legs pressed against the piano stool. It’s far enough to not raise any eyebrows while still affording him a lovely view of her reddened cheeks and pouted lips. Her breath quickens. He smiles. 

Her gaze drops to his lips. “I was hoping you could tell me, Father.” 

“Oh?” He takes another step closer, meeting her dark eyes as she looks up at him. 

The moment is lost when the door is thrown open, hitting the wall forcefully, a disgruntled Mr Remora marching up the aisle to where the two stand. Violet jerks away from the priest, hitting the back of her knees on the piano stool in her haste, losing her balance and landing inelegantly on the hard chair. 

He pays no mind to her panicked response. “As I mentioned in my last sermon, God commands us to confess. It’s right there in the Book of John: ‘But if we confess our sins to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all wickedness,” he says smoothly, standing tall with his arms folded behind his back. He is the picture of paternal concern, looking for all the world like a dutiful priest leading a distressed student. 

“Father Olaf!” Remora calls out, somewhat out of breath from his dramatic entrance. 

Olaf turns at the teacher’s voice, a perfect look of surprise on his face. “Ah, Mr. Remora! What brings you to our humble church?”

“Baudelaire! Her insolence will not––“

“Ah, Miss Baudelaire has decided to do an independent religious study and I have agreed to be her advisor. It’s all been checked and signed off by the administration.” He turns to Violet then, and both men stare at her expectantly. 

“Yes,” she says quickly, recovering herself. “Father Olaf has been very generous.”

The priest turns back to Mr. Remora, a banal smile plastered on his face. 

“Oh, well, I-I must say, this is highly unusual.”

“No need to worry yourself, she’s in good hands,” he soothes, turning the flustered man around and guiding him to the door. Remora does not truly care about his students, so all it takes is a few more assurances and he’s quite happy to leave, no questions asked. 

The door falls shut and Olaf turns to face her, the pleasant smile gone. Violet can feel her heartbeat quicken as he strides up towards her, the sharp echo of his shoes against the stone only heightens their solitude. There is a nervous, thrumming energy inside her, twisting through blood and sinew. It crackles between them, all anticipation and potential. 

He stands before her, tall and imposing and she has to remind herself to stay calm. He is a man of God, and he had gone out of his way to help her. She wouldn’t jeopardize his favor by acting like a foolish little girl. 

“An independent study?” she says, pleased when her voice comes out steady. 

He shrugs, hands tucked into his trouser pockets. “Class clearly wasn’t doing you any good. Be forewarned, Miss Baudelaire, this won’t be an idle time. I fully intend to put you to work,” he says sternly. He pats her shoulder placatingly, walking past her. 

“We’ll start tomorrow.”

Violet is left alone, disbelief and shocked amusement swirling in her chest. 

—

It turns out independent religious study involves a lot of organizing. Violet is tasked with sorting through mountains of paperwork stuffed haphazardly in boxes which line the shelves of his cramped office. The room is tucked off to the side of the church, and this is where she spends her afternoons. She does not mind the work, it is mindless and when she gets into a rhythm she doesn’t have to think at all. And, of course, anything is better than classes at Prufrock. 

She kneels on the rough carpet, surrounded by scattered papers, files, and books. Some are old sermons, written in the priest’s looped script. There’s piles of sheet music, different versions of the bible, theological writings and works. She is surprised to find a great deal of non-religious books, mostly plays and Shakespeare. 

Sometimes he there with her, reclined with his feet propped on the desk, absently drumming his fingers against the wood as he works. Sometimes, she does not see him at all. 

He doesn’t usually talk to her beyond instructions and small pleasantries and she is both relieved and upset by this. On one hand, she does not have the pressure of holding a full conversation with him, does not need to worry if she is being too much or too little. On the other, she does not get to hear the low rumble of his laugh or feel the weight of his gaze on her. 

About a month in, this changes. 

He catches her sitting cross-legged on the floor, completely absorbed in one of his books. Her brow is slightly furrowed as she reads, entirely focused on drawing meaning from the words neatly typed on a page. 

“Hard at work, I see.”

Violet jumps at his voice, slamming the book shut and looking up at him with wide eyes, a guilty blush heating her cheeks. From her spot on the floor, he looms over her, all sharp bones and angles. She hadn’t meant to get so caught up, but she had found the book in the back of a shelf, dusty but beautifully bound in leather with gold-embossed letters. The margins are lined with his notes, comments and allusions and before she knew it, an hour had passed.

He walks towards her, taking the book from her hands. “One of my favorites,” he says, running his fingers along the spine. 

“It’s beautifully written,” she offers, lacking the words to convey how deeply moved she had been by the novel. 

Olaf smiles. “You have good taste, then.” He turns from her, walking to a shelf she had yet to sort through. He hums a pleased note as he pulls out a slim playbook. 

“Here, try this one. You’ll like it.”

Gratefully, Violet takes the proffered book, her fingers brushing against his. “Thank you, Father,” she says, standing up to face him.

He waves her off, settling himself at his desk. “Of course, Miss Baudelaire.”

The conversation is clearly at an end, but Violet hesitates at the doorway. “Father, your notes – they’re brilliant,” she says shyly. 

His eyes flit up to meet hers, and she knows she could easily lose herself in those pale depths. 

“That is kind of you to say. I studied literature, a long time ago,” he explains.

She perks up, interested. “Oh? Why did you decide to take the cloth, then?” she asks, unable to mask her curiosity. 

He just gives her a small, secretive quirk of his lips. “Why, indeed.”

— 

It becomes a routine, of sorts. Violet, ever curious, devours the books he gives her, and excitedly tells him which parts she loved and the parts she hated. He listens to her chatter as they have tea, and he’s surprised to find he actually enjoys hearing her talk. She has a biting wit and it only makes him want her more. 

As she grows more comfortable with him, he becomes a sort of confidant for her. She tells him about the horrid girl in one of her classes, and her imitation of the shrill voice draws a low laugh from him. He finds her disdain for the students and staff alike amusing.

Ever guarded, she rarely divulges anything of consequence about herself, but he was a patient man. He had seen her sly glances when she thought he wasn’t looking, had seen her delightful little blushes. He wonders how far that blush goes as the flush dips across her slim throat, disappearing behind a stiff collar. 

She was a good little worker – his office had never been cleaner, and he had her all to himself during those hours. Olaf sits at his desk, watching with hungry eyes as she reaches for a high shelf, her school skirt riding up and up, each inch revealing pale skin. He sips his tea, hiding his smirk with the cup. She would come to him, eventually. He just had to wait for the perfect opportunity.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to all who have read and reviewed! here u go.

Violet bolts upright, sheets pooling around her waist as she grabs her throat, a raw cry muffled to a desperate whimper. She can still feel the flames licking at her skin, can feel the ash settle on her eyelashes. 

With a frustrated sigh, she throws off the thin covers and slips out of bed, knowing there was no chance of sleep tonight. Quietly, she walks through the halls of the dormitory, foregoing shoes to avoid any loud creaks. The weather during fall term had been unseasonably warm and Violet does not mind the light night breeze as she wanders, lost in memories and dreams. 

She finds herself at the church, hesitating at the door, suddenly afraid of being struck down by some divine being should she step foot in this consecrated place. She shakes her head, scolding herself for indulging such silly thoughts. She’s a scientist, she knows that it’s not possible. With this, she pushes the heavy door open, wincing at the drawn out creak the action causes. 

It is pure peace. Moonlight casts the entire church in a pale glow, ghostly reflections of the stained glass windows scattered across the stone floor. For the first time in ages, there is absolute stillness and silence and Violet feels like she can finally breathe. 

She slips into a pew near the altar, closing her eyes and leaning her cheek against the cool wood of the pew in front of her. _Perhaps I should pray_ , she thinks idly, but then she remembers that no just god would let such misfortune befall her. 

“Miss Baudelaire.”

Violet startles at his voice, jumping in her shock. She instantly feels silly – it is a church and he is a priest, _of course_ he’d be here. It does not strike her as odd that he’s awake this late at night, she simply accepts that he is and that he is now with her. Her skin prickles with anticipation. 

“Father! I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be here,” she starts, feeling somewhat embarrassed, but he shushes her stumbling apologies. 

“This is a place of God, you are always welcome here,” he says, settling in the pew across from her. He’s still in all black but the collar is gone. He doesn’t question her or push, certain that she would open up to him on her own. He just had to be patient. 

They sit in silence for a while. The priest does not mind, but Violet finds the silence only furthers the distance between them. She nervously twists the hem of her plain nightdress, the thin cotton wrinkling underneath her hands. 

“Father,” she begins hesitantly, and he has to suppress a satisfied smile. 

_Finally._

“You can speak freely here, Miss Baudelaire. What is it that is troubling you?” he asks, the picture of paternal concern. He can see her struggle to form the sentences, to give voice to the pain and suffering she’s been through. He knows pushing too hard will only scare her away. 

He stands, the action causing her to look at him in confusion. “Would you like a cup of tea? Perhaps a less…formal setting will help,” he says, already walking to the back of the church. He smiles when she follows behind him like a little ghost, her bare feet silent on the stone. 

_Like shepherd and flock_ , he thinks as he strides down the hall to his private rooms. As he stops to unlock the door, Violet catches up to him, a nervous energy thrumming in her veins. The door opens with a click, and Violet follows him into the room. 

He gestures to a chair, a silent order, and Violet obediently sits. He disappears into an adjoining room, and she takes the opportunity to examine her surroundings. His rooms are somewhat lavishly decorated, she’s surprised to note. It’s certainly very nice, and Violet is thrilled to be in such an intimate part of his life. 

Father Olaf returns, setting a cup of tea in front of her. Violet holds the delicate cup between her hands, grateful for the warmth. He settles into the chair across from her, tracing the rim of his own cup. The movement catches her eye, and she finds herself enraptured with his hands. On his fingers are several rings, but a beautifully intricate signet ring stands out – a brilliant gold with an eye etched into the face. Without thinking, Violet reaches across the table and presses her fingers to the gold. 

He doesn’t move to stop her, amusement lighting his eyes as he watches her trace the contours of his ring, trailing her fingers down to press against the skin on his wrist. He wonders if she can feel his pulse, the heat in his blood. 

“Didn’t you take a vow of poverty?” she says, sipping demurely from her teacup. 

He grins. “Cheeky. I ought to spank you for that, Miss Baudelaire.”

Violet shivers as she imagines it, the feel of his palm against her skin as she lays across his lap, his barely restrained desire as she writhes and begs for forgiveness. Her nails bite into her palm as she clenches her fists. He only smiles wider. 

“Just Violet is fine,” she says finally, figuring there was no need for formalities at this point. 

“Violet,” he says, beaming. She likes the way her name sounds from his lips, three syllables rolling off the tongue. _Vi-o-let_. No one else says it like that. 

“You said I could come to talk,” she begins.

He nods earnestly. “Of course. I am a bit disappointed you didn’t come earlier,” he admonishes, and she feels guilt prick at her. He was so kind, so helpful. “I truly believe I can help you, Violet.”

“I don’t know what to do. I can’t think, I can’t _sleep_ – Father, I am so _tired_ ,” she says, the words whispered in a tearful rush. 

Olaf covers her hand with his, gently brushing his thumb against her wrist. “Violet,” he soothes, hushing her stuttered gasps. “Dear girl, I know, I know. Confess. Unburden your soul to me, _to God_ , and you will know peace. These demons that haunt you get power in your silence. Tell me.”

She shakes her head, wrapping her thin arms around herself tightly. “I can’t.”

He reaches out then, grips her shoulder tight enough that Violet looks up at him in surprise, fixing those big dark eyes on him. 

“You can,” he says firmly. “I’m here to listen, not judge. Our God is ever merciful.” 

Still, she hesitates. Rolling his eyes, he uses his strength to shift her from the chair, pushing her down by her shoulder. 

“Kneel.” 

Confused, she allows him to push her to her knees in front of him. Olaf closes his eyes for a second and lets himself appreciate the imagery: this lovely little girl, supplicant and kneeling before him like he was an altar she could worship at. He places his hand on her head, stroking his fingers through her hair. 

“Confess,” he says quietly, but it is no less of an order. 

Violet shivers, closing her eyes and leaning into his touch. Steeling herself, she begins awkwardly, going off of what she had seen in films.

“Forgive me Father,” she murmurs, resisting the urge to fidget. “I… I’ve lost my faith, I think.”

The weight of his hand on her is both comforting and damning. He keeps stroking her hair. 

“I thought you didn’t believe in God.” 

He speaks in low, soothing tones that make her sigh, make her want to tell him everything and lay her soul _(herself)_ bare. 

“Not in God,” she says, shaking her head. “In the world, I suppose. In myself.”

He only hums in response, encouraging her to continue. 

“I can’t sleep, ever, because every time I close my eyes I dream of fire. I worry that I may be damned anyways, God or not –– Father, what if after everything, I’m just damaged and broken? What future is there for me? I worry that I have become unfeeling, that I will just keeping drifting through the days numb and cold.” Her words are rushed, her quiet fears that had calcified in her heart suddenly pouring out of her like blood from a wound. 

She cannot stop now, and her most shameful secret of all comes tumbling off her lips –– that despite everything, she still feels desire, a pure selfish want. How during the nights she doesn’t wake up crying with the taste of smoke on her tongue, she wakes up fevered and wanting. How she dreams of kneeling before him, begging him to take her and make her feel, to chase away the coldness inside her. 

“I think about you all the time, Father,” she admits, her eyes shut tight. She is sure that at any moment he will throw her out, that he will find her unworthy and unredeemable. 

“Tell me,” he breathes, his voice raspy and his grip tight. 

Her eyes blink open in shock, meeting his eyes and for a moment she is afraid of how dark they are, how hungry they are. 

“Tell me what you think about, I want to know. Be specific,” he adds. 

“I think about you touching me,” she begins shyly. Unconsciously, she presses her legs together, her cheeks reddened. 

“Where?”

“Everywhere,” she says immediately, and he has to bite back a groan. 

“Do you want me to kiss you, Violet?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Do you want my fingers inside you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.”

Olaf leans back, unable to hide his triumph. _Christ_. He’s half hard already and he hasn’t even touched her. 

“Very good, Violet,” he croons. Olaf makes the sign of the cross, his ring catching in the low lamplight. “May God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” 

She looks up at him, her hands clasped in her lap and she looks every bit the pious virgin that the bible so exalts. He cups her cheek, raising her face to meet his gaze. With careful, deliberate movements, Olaf strokes his thumb against her cheekbone, down her jaw, brushing against her pouted lips with gossamer touches. Almost unthinkingly, she presses her lips to his thumb, pressing the tiniest of kisses to it. He grins, delighted when she parts her lips for him and lets him press his finger into her mouth. 

“Such a good girl, aren’t you?” 

She sighs and closes her eyes, dark lashes fanning onto her cheek, leaning further into his touch. 

He slips his thumb from her lips, grabbing her by the shoulders as he pulls her to her feet, standing them both up. Her eyes widen in surprise but she is pliable in his arms, and then his mouth is on hers and she swears she feels absolution. 

Olaf groans into her lips, his hands tracing up her side before settling on her waist, pulling her tightly against him. His hand dips under the hem of her nightdress, feeling the smooth skin of her thighs. Her breath hitches as his hand travels up and up, brushing the cotton of her underwear. He pulls her shift off of her, leaving her chest delightfully bare. 

She tries to cover herself but he holds her arms down, kissing her deeply. “Let me see you, sweet girl,” he murmurs against her lips, and she relaxes into his grip. He cups her breast in his hand as he kisses his way down her neck to the flat space between her breasts, and then his mouth is on her and she cannot help but gasp as his clever tongue circles the sensitive skin. Her hands fly to his shoulders, holding him tightly against her. 

He kisses his way down her stomach, falling to his knees before her, his head bowed prayerful and reverent as he rests it against her, holding her around her waist. He draws his hands over her hips, hooking his fingers underneath the waistband of her underwear and slowly drags them down, helping her balance her weight as she steps out of them. Still on his knees, he pushes Violet into the chair he had been sitting in, his hands warm on her thighs. 

“Let me make you feel good. I’ll have you seeing God,” he promises, and then he is pressing kisses to her inner thighs, spreading her legs and draping one over his shoulder, leaving her bare and open. 

She can feel his breath hot against her center and she shuts her eyes tight, unsure but _exhilarated_ , and then his tongue is on her and she gasps, hips bucking up against him. He is careful, almost methodical in the way he presses the flat of his tongue to her, cataloguing her reactions. Violet has nothing to compare it to, but the tight bud of pleasure building inside her with each brush of his mouth and fingers is _brilliant_ , and she cannot find it in her to be embarrassed by her own enthusiasm, evident in her slicked thighs. For his part, he seems to enjoy her vocality – she can _feel_ him smile against her each time he draws a breathy moan from her. 

He focuses his attentions on her clit and she is there, grasping the arm of the chair tightly. Instinctively, her legs close but he shoves them apart, not letting her come down as he keeps his mouth on her. Gently, he presses a finger and then a second inside her, drawing out her climax. She is too sensitive and squirms away from his touch, pushing him away, blushing at his glistening lips. He sits back on his heels, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and grins at her. 

Violet leans forward, catching his face between her hands and drawing him up to meet her, kissing him fiercely. She can taste her desire on his lips and she is certain she has never felt more powerful, more wanted. He groans appreciatively, wrapping his arms around her waist as he stands up, lifting her easily as he goes. Before she can process what is happening, she finds herself laid out on his bed. She lands with a slight bounce and she props herself up on her elbows, watching Olaf as he stands at the foot of the bed. 

He stands still for a beat and he looks almost statuesque, but then he is unbuttoning his shirt with quick, thin fingers, shrugging it off and letting it fall to the floor, quickly followed by the rest of his clothes until he is completely bare. Violet does not know whether she should look at him or away. Olaf notices her uncomfortable squirm and smiles, amused, as he settles himself around her.

His hand cups her chin, drawing her face up to meet his as he leans over her, kissing her parted lips as his free hand wanders across her body. His fingers dig into her hip, dimpling the skin and forming little bruises that stand out beautifully against her paleness. He grabs her leg, hoisting it up to wrap around his waist, drawing him closer towards her. His tongue is in her mouth, his hands hot and demanding on her body, his cock hard against her stomach and she is so overwhelmed. 

Olaf pulls back, pleased to see how _wrecked_ she looks –– all mussed hair and swollen lips –– and he hasn’t even fucked her yet. He takes a moment to admire her naked form, the low light creating flattering shadows. He traces his fingertips down her chest, following the blush that colors the pale skin. He decides then and there that he will take all of her until no part is left untouched by him. She’d never be able to rid him from her, he’d always be the first. He will stake his claim, make her irrefutably his. 

He kisses her again, gentle and soft, and when he pulls back, his face just a breath away from hers, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire. 

His words are whispered against her lips. “Put your faith _in me_. Can you do that?”

“Yes, oh, yes,” she chants, eager, and then he is pushing inside her. 

It hurts, and she winces at the pain, a tear escaping down her cheek. He presses his lips to it and when he kisses her he tastes of salt. 

“You’re fine, sweet girl,” he says, groaning as he fills her completely. After giving her a moment, he begins to grind into her, barely pulling out, forcing her to accommodate him hard and thick inside her. She gasps at the depth, digging her fingers into his shoulders tightly and pressing her face into the crook of his neck. 

“That’s it, such a good girl for me, what a lovely cunt. Open up for me, Violet, you can take it, there’s a good girl.” He kisses her face, her neck, murmuring against the skin, his voice low with desire. 

He works her open slowly, brushing his fingers over her breasts. She is small beneath him, her eyes shut tightly, but she doesn’t tell him to stop and so he continues. But _Christ_ , did she feel incredible. He can’t stop himself from telling her how good she feels, how perfect her cunt is around him. Her small whimpers and gasps as she clings to him feed his ego, and he speeds up, each drag of his cock drawing high, staccato whines from her. She is pale and sweet and lovely and now she is all his, and he is there, pulling out and quickly stroking himself, coming on her lower belly.

Violet is panting as he pulls her to his side, slipping his fingers inside her. She groans, exhausted but so wound up as he touches her expertly, brushing his thumb against her clit and she is coming apart against his fingers, her whole body trembling. She falls back, limp with pleasure, and is dimly aware of his weight as he settles next to her. 

“Did you feel it?” he asks after a long moment. 

“What?” 

“God.”

“Yes,” she says, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

—

“Christ, you’re perfect,” he groans, hips slamming against hers, pleased with how well she can take him now. His rhythm falters as he peaks, spilling inside her. This is his reward for taking her to the clinic, two towns over, fucking her bare as much as he wants. She’s so touch-starved, so anxious to please and feel any connection and he takes his pleasure in her whenever he can. 

During her free period he fucks her in his office, her school skirt flipped up as she bends over the desk. She had initially been hesitant, but a week of the cold shoulder had turned her around fast enough. 

He likes her, sure. He likes making her come, likes seeing the imperceptible twitches of muscle as she nears her peak, the flush against her pale skin. He makes sure she gets hers too, makes it worth her while. He likes having her in his bed, warm and pliant, curled around him at night. 

In a different life, he thinks he could have loved her. 

— 

He falls beside her, sweat cooling on their bodies. She turns her back to him and lets him curl around her, and tries not to think of his arms around her as a cage. If it is, it’s a gilded one, certainly. 

“You’re my temptation, Violet,” he breathes against her skin. “How can we repent if we do not experience sin?”

“So this is sinful?”

“No, no. This is _holy_.” 

She doesn’t even know if she wants it, but all she knows is that _he does_ , and his word is the word of god, and the word of god is law. All she knows is that his desire for her is overwhelming, consuming any other thought she might have had. She would find benediction in his words, in his touches. His wants are her sole focus, something she can devote herself to. 

When she sleeps, she dreams of nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes!!

**Author's Note:**

> sorry bout it
> 
> if you like the v/o content pls leave a comment! god bless


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